


heartbeat running away

by letterfromathief



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grocery Store, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Young Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Young Emma Swan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:16:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5323682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterfromathief/pseuds/letterfromathief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The shelter offered by the grocery store is what pulls him in, but it's Emma that makes him stay.</p><p>Inspired by the prompt: “I work at a little market/store and u came up to the register with a candy bar but didn’t have enough money to pay for the entire thing. But don’t worry, I got you, fam” au</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emmaofmisthaven (lokiintheskywithdiamonds)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=emmaofmisthaven+%28lokiintheskywithdiamonds%29).



Stopping by the little market just off Main Street wasn’t exactly in his plans for today, but it starts to rain in a torrential downpour that has him seeking the shelter of its glittering “Fresh Ice Cream Served Daily” signed walls.

It feels wrong, dripping water on the clean floors of the little grocery store, so he stands in the doorway for a bit, just looking around. He hasn’t been to that many places yet, not even enrolled in the school until Monday - although Ruby assures him that he’ll love it there, and oh, she can’t wait to show him off, we’ll have to do something different with your hair but -

Killian takes a deep breath for the Ruby in his head, and it sort of scares him that she’s already there, when his situation is so precarious that it could slip through his hands at any moment and then Ruby would just be a voice in his head.

He doesn’t want any more of those.

He also doesn’t want to be in this store when he’s so close to his destination, but, with this rain, the pier is out of the question now so he needs to stop hunching in the doorway and actually pretend like he belongs there. He’s certain he can make that work if he starts browsing for a bit, just until the storm lets up and he can get back to Granny’s.

“Are you going to stand there or are you going to buy something?”

The voice isn’t judging, but Killian snaps up all the same because its owner has her hands crossed over her chest, she’s looking at him with open curiosity and she’s smiling weakly like she isn’t sure he’s worthy of a real smile just yet.

She isn’t judging. He doesn’t feel judged - and it’s such a relief that it embarrasses him how quickly he looks along the front aisles of shelves for something to buy, for an excuse to -

To make a friend, he supposes.

She looks about his age, maybe a bit younger, 14 or so, and when he gets closer, he sees her name on the little white and blue badge on her chest: _Emma_.

Emma taps her fingers on the counter and uses her other hand to push her blonde hair behind her ear. Sighing, she says, “I suggest the ice cream. We make it fresh.”

“We? You make the ice cream?”

She narrows her eyes at him. Crossing her arms over her chest again, chin held defensively high, she says, “Yeah.”

Killian stares at her.

Emma frowns a little, shifts, and ducks her head down, her cheeks a little pink. Softer, she adds, “Well, I’m learning. I made the vanilla today.”

“I’d love to try it. How much?” he asks.

“Two-fifty a scoop,” Emma says.

Killian digs in his pockets, and it’s only a second later that he realizes that he isn’t going to find anything in there. He sucks in a breath, sucks it up and goes for his boot, unlacing it quickly and digging for the cash beneath his heel. He pulls out the folded wad, only to realize that he only has two dollars.

It’s a great way to make a first impression.

He tells himself to be an adult about it, but he can’t stop the hot blush that covers his cheeks when he stands and says, “Sorry. I don’t have enough.”

Emma’s look isn’t judging this time either, but very soft even when she shrugs and says, “Don’t worry about it. As long as you don’t say my ice cream sucks, it’s on me.”

“You don’t have to -” he starts.

“I know,” she says.

He doesn’t feel pitied either when he watches her move about. She’s very professional about it, but she struggles to roll her plaid shirt up to her elbows, winces when she sticks her hand in the freezer to scoop out the vanilla, and when she has the ice cream in a cup she makes another face, this time brow furrowed while she watches him spoon his ice cream into his mouth.

It tastes _good_.

“Remember, you’re not allowed to tell me it’s bad,” Emma says.

“I’m not?” he teases.

Her face turns a deeper shade of pink than before, closer to red than anything else.

“It’s good. Really good. Thank you,” he says sincerely.

She breathes a sigh of relief - and then shakes her head at herself and says, “No problem. I’m glad you like it, I mean, you’re the first person to try it.”

“I’m Killian,” he says. “Killian Jones.”

It’s awkward for a moment while she stares at him, and then she smiles and says, “I’m Emma Swan.”

It’s a real smile on her face and he has the gut feeling, absolutely knows for certain that it isn’t something she shares that often.

So, he offers her one of his own, a large grin that makes his cheeks hurt in the same way the ice cream does. He hasn’t really had much of an excuse to be happy in a while, and he takes advantage, soaks in Emma’s smile while he licks away the remnants of her vanilla ice cream.

“Next time, the ice cream won’t be free,” Emma says warningly.

She looks up at him from beneath her lashes. She has pretty green eyes.

“Is that an invitation to return?” he asks.

“With money,” Emma says.

“I get your point, Swan,” he says, laughing even though it means he’ll have to get a job just to eat her ice cream again, so he can stand at this counter and maybe get to see that smile.

Maybe she’ll make chocolate next time. Or raspberry sherbet. Or caramel swirl. His mother liked her “decadent sweets.” He could list ice cream flavors all day.

Maybe Killian could show Emma how to make chocolate fondue.

He realizes he’s getting ahead of himself, staring at her too long, when she makes a noise and crosses her arms back over her chest.

Not wanting to make her uncomfortable, he says, “So, I’ll return.”

Her eyes widen, body tensing.

He bites his lip for a second and lets it go to say, “For the ice cream.”

“Good,” Emma says.

He tenses this time as she scrunches up her nose. At first he thinks she’s going to frown and take it back. But she just dimples her cheeks with a grin and says, “We love return customers.”

Killian grumbles, “You only want me for my money.”

Emma’s laugh hurts like the ice cream did, like her smile did, but just a little worse because it makes him feel slightly desperate - he doesn’t need another sound in his head, one that he might never hear again if he doesn’t fit in here, if Granny decides that he’s too much of a burden, or _anything_ at all goes wrong.

“I’ll see you later, Swan,” he says, hoping that if he says it aloud it’ll make it true.

He follows his same path back towards the door, not wanting to leave a soggy trail anywhere else, and looks out the door’s glass frame. The rain has let up. He’s free to leave - and maybe even make it to the pier before he needs to be back at Granny’s.

Killian glances at Emma over his shoulder.

No, it would be too much of a risk.

Opening the door, he steps out into the light rain. He looks back at the door as it swings shut behind him. He can’t see Emma past the glittering neon lights, but he does see the paper hanging on the door, a little wet but still legible.

_Help Wanted._

Killian smiles and latches onto the feeling of happiness, holding onto it tight.

-

He’s this close to sweating, which shouldn’t be how he reacts to the ice cold stare Ms. Arendelle is levelling at him. He’d rather turn to stone than fight the itch to scrub at his face, the back of his neck, pull at the sleeves of his black button down shirt and wish that he’d dressed just a touch better.

“Why do you want to work here?”

His mother taught him to be honest. She taught him to know his own worth, and make sure others know it too. So, Killian answers the way she taught him, avoids mumbling and says directly, “I want to be able to afford your ice cream.”

It’s not as direct as he can be. It’s not as honest as it could be either, but by the way Emma took off when Ms. Arendelle led him in the back, he is certain that total honesty would _not_ be the best policy in this case.

“Well,” she says.

Killian stares at her, trying to remain composed under the pressure of her returned look. Admittedly, he does break, his eyes widening when she offers him a smile.

“If you’re going to be putting money right back into the store, who am I to deny you the job? You’ll have to pick up your work permit from the school first before I can give you any hours, and I’ll want to talk to your parents -”

Killian jerks his head and holds back the sigh. She isn’t the first, she won’t be the last, and he’s used to it by now. Still, it’s tough to frame it in a way that doesn’t make people look at him like what he is.

“I’m staying with Ms. Lucas. You’ll have to talk to her,” he says.

“I see,” she says.

He lets himself let out a small breath when he realizes that Emma and Ms. Arendelle are a lot alike in that her look isn’t pitying but understanding when she says, “That’s perfect. I’ve got Granny’s number on speed dial.”

Killian nods.

“Emma will show you around the store for now but your work permit is very important. I need you to get that as soon as you can. I want to be able to pay you for hanging around my store.”

She smiles at him and brushes her hands down the apron she’s wearing. Killian translates that as a dismissal until she reaches out and touches his shoulder.

“What’s your favorite ice cream?” she asks.

Killian blanks, all the ice cream flavors in the world dripping from his mind.

“Vanilla,” he says because it’s the only one not carried away by her stare.

Ms. Arendelle nods. “Emma’s probably in the cookie aisle. Aisle Three. Tell her that those sugar cookies are coming out of her paycheck and ask her to show you around.”

Killian nods.

“Thank you,” he says.

She nods sagely and says, “Just be sure not to spend all your paycheck here. Our vanilla ice cream goes great with Granny’s apple pie, and she’s sure to be hiking up the prices come holiday season.”

This time she waves him out, a true dismissal, so Killian steps out of her office, closing the door behind him and looks up at the aisles, searching for the numbers. It isn’t exactly necessary because there are only about ten aisles in the whole store.

Also, he can hear light crunching, the unmistakable sound of a cookie enjoyed.

He clears his throat before he steps around the corner of aisle three, not wanting to catch Emma off guard, but she doesn’t feel the same because she thrusts her arm out as he enters the aisle, slamming it against his chest.

The air flees his lungs for a second. She can pack a punch.

“Want a cookie?” she asks, a blue tin in her outstretched hand.

It’s those Danish butter cookies that his mother used to love. She used to save the tins, putting little knick-knacks in them - beads and thread and some of Killian’s Legos, the important ones that he didn’t want to lose in the abyss of his bedroom.

“I don’t have a paycheck to take that out of yet,” he says.

Slowly she pulls her hand back, closing the small tin fully shut. Emma stares at him, nose scrunching up.

“Yet?” she asks.

“Ah, Ms. Arendelle wanted you to show me around? I’ll be starting as soon as I get my work permit from the school,” he says.

She goes silent.

It lasts for long enough that Killian says, “You said to come back with money.”

She glances away from him, but he can still see her bite her lip and the clench of her fist is unmistakable. He’s miss-stepped and ruined this before it’s even started.

He rocks back on his boot heels, sighing.

When she turns back around, she says, “The register is simple enough to figure out. And you should know how to bag, delicate items like bread and eggs in separate bags, meat gets its own bag too and heavy stuff gets double bagged, and so on.” She takes a breath, a necessary one considering how fast she’s speaking and then says, “Ingrid keeps the storeroom super organized and if anything needs to go out on the floor, it’s really easy to find, but for now just let me handle that and you handle the customers. You’ll need to get used to the faces of Storybrooke anyway since you’re new here.”

“Emma,” Killian says.

“Yeah?” she asks, breathing just a little heavy.

“You have crumbs on your shirt.”

With the tin in her hand, she punches him lightly. She smiles small with a shake of her head and a roll of her eyes to emphasize just how “annoyed” she is. Even though her fists stay clenched, ready to punch him again, he smiles back.

He steps into her, a step carefully taken this time, and it works. She rubs at the crumbs on her t-shirt – he wasn’t lying - and with a humored tone, says, “Oh, come on, let me give you the grand tour.”

-

By the tour’s end, Killian knows a great many things:

That Calling Ingrid “Ms. Arendelle” is the surest way to get that icy look directed at him, and that she wasn’t lying when she told him that Granny is going to raise the prices of her pies (so he should turn on the charm and get Emma some for free.) They get new inventory on Tuesdays and Saturdays, and Emma’s more than happy to drop that particular duty of unpacking the boxes on him - and all her other duties, like mopping up spilled ice cream and “wet footprints left by the customers.” The ice cream really is made fresh daily, although that depends on the flavor, and sometimes Emma gets up really early before school to make it with Ingrid - and sometimes, that ice cream gets sold in store.

He also now knows what it feels like to repeatedly be hit over the head with a near-empty cookie tin for simple transgressions of pointing out that Aisle 5 is most certainly not the canned foods aisle, unless you count toothpaste as food, and teasing jokes about finding long blonde strands of hair in the ice cream.

Most importantly, he knows that he and Emma are in the same homeroom, and that come tomorrow, he’ll have that to look forward to, a familiar face - a _friendly_ face when he walks through the doors.


	2. (can you hear that boom)

 

Ruby did his hair.

Emma can tell because it’s a total and complete wreck, which is what Ruby is attracted to for reasons Emma _can_ understand, but she has no idea why she’d want to make Killian look that way when he was fine before, with his hair pressed flat to his forehead and hanging neatly above his eyebrows.

He looked like a nerd before, and now he just looks like a nerd trying too hard to look like Ruby’s type.

“You can tell Ruby to leave your head alone,” Emma whispers when their homeroom teacher has her back turned.

Killian reddens which is a point for Emma.

He, however, recovers fast enough to say, “What? Don’t you like it?” and his words are so uncertain that Emma mumbles, “It looks fine.”

The smile that graces his features is equal parts pleased and smug, and Emma doesn’t know what to say to that so she says nothing at all.

So, point him.

-

They stay like that, on even footing. Ruby says they’re in sync but Emma has cause to disagree because if they were so in sync, they wouldn’t always be bumping elbows as Killian’s scooping out ice cream and Emma’s trying to ring up the customer’s other purchases.

“Can you keep your elbows to yourself?” she huffs when he hits her again.

“What about your hips?” he fires back. “You’ve hip checked me at least four times since you got behind the counter.”

“Are you _counting_?”

His forehead wrinkles together like she’s being the annoyance here, not him, and finally he turns to their customer, Mrs. Knighton and dunks her son Roland’s rocky road in the rainbow sprinkles, enough added sugar to leave him on a high that’s sure to keep him awake well past his bedtime.

Roland gives Emma a toothy grin to match the one that covers her face at the thought of the little dimpled hobbit bouncing around his house.

There’s a gap between his front teeth where he’s lost one and Killian asks, “Sure you can eat that without your teeth?”

Roland grins wider and nods his head.

“Alright, then,” Killian sighs, and hands over the spoon while Emma passes a stack of napkins to his mother.

They don’t bump hips or elbows this time, even when he crosses over her to hand Mrs. Knighton her own ice cream while Emma hands Roland another spoon because, “Papa always steals from me. So, he should get a spoon of his own.”

“Your papa should know that stealing is illegal,” Emma says.

“Illegal?” Roland asks.

“What she means is that he could get punished for that,” Killian clarifies.

Roland nods in understanding. “Oh, like, timeout?” He looks at his mother at the word, guilt flashing over his teensy features.

Someone didn’t clean their room.

“Yes, exactly like that. Tell him he can avoid it by paying you,” Emma says.

“Paying me?” Roland asks.

He _likes_ the sound of that, she can see it in the way he eyes the two spoons contemplatively.

“Oh boy,” Marian murmurs.

“Extra bedtime stories,” Emma says.

“Extra hugs and kisses,” Killian says.

Roland tugs at his mother’s sleeve and says, “Can I do that?”

She bends to his height, napkin in hand to wipe the chocolate from the corner of his mouth and Emma’s stomach pangs at the sight, not exactly in a bad way, but sometimes she wishes - she wishes that Ingrid had found her sooner.

And she feels guilty for thinking that when she _has_ Ingrid now. Probably has her watching over her at this very moment from the cameras in her office.

“You can do that,” Mrs. Knighton says to Roland.

She stands back up and smiles at them, leaning over the counter to whisper, “Papa’s going to be only _too_ happy to hear about his punishment. Thank you.”

She leaves a ten in the tip jar, and Emma hip checks Killian as she reaches for it, pushing him out of the way and claiming it for her own.

Later, she donates it to the register because even her employee discount is not enough to cover the large tin of Danish Butter cookies she buys for him to take home with him.

He protests, “I don’t like these cookies.”

But school comes and he brings her three every day, three for himself and even if he insists he’s trying to make sure she doesn’t get diabetes with the small portions, he always ends up eating four of them by himself.

He’s such a poor liar, and Emma likes that, the way he can’t seem to pretend that every time she hip checks, elbows, punches, or pokes him that he’s truly annoyed.

A shit liar, even.

Emma likes that.

-

Summer comes so fast that Killian can’t believe it when they’re actually free of school and he can just - lie across the bench at the pier and stare up into the sky.

Right up until that sky is blotted out by a flash of plaid, and he’s dragged up from off his back to a sitting position. Free, he was _free_ , but it isn’t like having Emma scooting into cleared space beside him makes him feel trapped.

On the contrary, he feels freer.

“Ingrid is going to work our butts off this summer. We need to do something fun before that,” Emma says.

“This is fun,” Killian says.

He grabs for her hand, pulls her closer. He looks over at her to find her smiling at him, double dimples deep enough for him to catch the sunshine in.

“I like the water,” he says.

Emma nods in agreement. “We should go to the beach. You can drive us.”

“Only with an adult in the car,” he reminds her.

“We’ll take Ingrid. She could use some sun,” she shrugs like it’s nothing.

Killian is inclined to disagree.

At the look on his face, she says, “Don’t worry. She can’t hear us.” She shrugs again and says, “I don’t know why you’re so scared of her.”

“Because sometimes she looks at me like I’ve stolen her firstborn,” Killian says.

Emma frowns slightly, and Killian would leave it alone, but her hand is still in his, she doesn’t pull away so he asks, “I swear I haven’t stolen her firstborn.”

Emma sighs. “She adopted me, you know. I’m not her firstborn or anything.”

Killian did know, but it never seemed like something necessary to talk about, just like the fact that he’s a foster kid and they’re - two of a kind in a way; she understands him and he understands her enough to just grin and say, “You’re her daughter, which is worse, because you’re not a hypothetical thing I can steal. You’re real.”

Emma smiles too, and shoots back, “Were you planning on kidnapping me?”

He scratches at his chin with his free hand. “How much do you think I could get for the ransom?”

“Not enough to make the black eye I’d give you worth it,” Emma says succinctly.

“How right you are, Swan,” he says. He squeezes her hand, and adds reassuringly, “Besides, I’d never steal a person.” He pauses a second, turns to meet her eyes again as he says, “But if you wanted to run away with me…”

“You wouldn’t say no?”

Her question is softly said and it makes him soften, too.

Quietly, he says, “I’d tell you that it’s a bad idea. I don’t have nearly enough saved up yet.”

They stare at each other a beat longer than the breath he holds and releases on her laughter.

“It’s your cookie addiction,” Emma says. “Cut back on that and you’ll have enough money in no time.”

He’d tickle her and argue back, but her hand is still wrapped in his so all he has is the one hand to tug at his own shirt while he murmurs, “I only buy them for you.”

“Liar,” Emma says.

But she doesn’t sound sure.

-

It’s days after her fifteenth birthday that Killian gets caught playing with her hair and the kind old lady who lives with her fifty something cats hums something that Emma pretends not to hear.

That is, until she can’t pretend because Killian straightens, ears perked up as he always does when they have an older customer, so respectful that it puts Emma to shame most times.

“What was that Mrs. Bastet?” he asks.

Gods, he looks ready to salute her. Or take a bow to Her Majesty of the Cat Nation.

“It’s okay to be affectionate with one another in public. I promise, I won’t tell,” Mrs. Bastet replies.

She winks.

Emma blanches and Killian - it’s strange how he can waver between over-confident and shy like it’s nothing, like he’s simultaneously both, because he says, “This is as affectionate as it gets, sadly,” and then ducks his head like he’s said something wrong.

It doesn’t feel _wrong_.

It just feels strange, a twisting and turning in her stomach and a lightness in her head - which isn’t all him, it’s the way Mrs. Bastet smiles and replies, “I sincerely doubt that.”

She winks again, and says, “I’ll need some help carrying the cat litter and food to the car, Killian.”

“And Emma?” she adds.

Emma looks up from where she’s staring at the floor. Her heart pounds as Mrs. Bastet looks between her and Killian and she senses that something is going to burst, it already feels like she’s going to explode if Mrs. Bastet keeps staring at her.

“I’ll take my chocolate-vanilla swirl to go.”

Killian glances at her as he follows Mrs. Bastet towards the pet aisle, but quickly looks away - sadly, almost. Emma shrugs, but it’s weak - her heartbeat still going too fast for her to truly breathe.

-

He teaches her to make chocolate fondue in the worst way possible.

There’s so much chocolate on his neck and in her hair and clinging to their cheeks that Ingrid looks ready to hose them both down when she finds them laughing against each other in the kitchen, and for once, Killian doesn’t care that Ingrid’s giving him the evil eye because Emma says, “Your mother really taught you how to make this? You were a poor student.”

“I was an excellent student. Just a poor teacher,” Killian says.

“Are the two of you going to be fine cleaning this up on your own?” Ingrid asks, cutting through their ongoing argument.

Emma pushes away from him and picks at the dollop of chocolate on her shirt, catches it on her finger and smears it across Killian’s cheek, and while he’s trying not to laugh, she turns to Ingrid and says, “I think we’ll be okay.”

When Ingrid leaves the room, a shrug in her shoulders and a smile on her face, Emma says, “I’ll teach you how to make the ice cream next time. It’s much less messy.”

Killian takes a moment to look at the mess around them, but his gaze finds its way back to her pretty quickly, especially when she’s licking at her fingers, trying to clear away the chocolate from her lips with her tongue. He stares at her for a long while before he realizes he’s doing so, just staring at her like a gaping fool.

He scratches at the back of his neck, curses himself when it ends up smearing chocolate back there too.

Emma laughs, pokes at his cheek with a still chocolate covered finger and says fondly, “Idiot.”

The hug is probably a bad idea, especially when his heart is pounding in his ears, and he’s just on the edge of some kind of terrible (possibly wonderful) realization, but he does it anyway, just to make her squirm and curse, “Idiot!”

Even as a curse, it sounds just as fond.

Even with her elbow in his stomach, Killian echoes the sentiment.

-

Killian tries to let his birthday come and go, but Emma won’t let him. Still, she just _gets_ it, doesn’t throw him a surprise party, and doesn’t invite all their classmates for some big bash.

(“No one calls it a birthday bash, Killian,” Ruby says when she broached the idea. “And stop looking like the thought makes you want to bash your head in.”)

Emma wakes him up early, knocking on his door at Granny’s until he comes out, sleep groggy, rubbing sight into his eyes - the greatest sight to wake up to, Emma in her apron and her hair tied back, her favorite plaid shirt, now a bit too small because of -

He keeps his gaze on her face, and thinks of how she rolled it up to her elbows the first day they met to keep it from getting into the ice cream.

“We’re going to make caramel swirl today,” she says and he doesn’t even mind that it’s not even five in the morning because she looks like she hasn’t slept at all, and yet her smile is still bright and assured that she isn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer.

Not that he’d give it, but he does tell her to wait a moment while he throws on clothes. He can’t go to work in his PJs no matter what Emma jokingly teases.

Ingrid supervises them when they get there, taking Killian through every single step, her voice lilting happily as she explains what they’re doing, why they’re doing it, why he can’t just throw in the caramel _now_ \- and “No, it won’t taste good at this point, you haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

She sends Emma and him upstairs in search of said breakfast while she tosses the finished product in the freezer. There are warm waffles in the oven and vanilla ice cream in the fridge and Killian’s decided this is his day to be decadent, to indulge like his mother would, the way Emma obviously wants to do, sneaking glances at him when she takes the sprinkles out the cabinet and douses her own ice cream covered waffle in it, topping it with warm chocolate.

“Ruby told me it was your birthday,” Emma admits sheepishly.

Killian nods. “I assumed that was the case. You didn’t have to do all this, Emma. To get up so early and set up everything just for me.”

“I know, but -” She licks at her lip and Killian doesn’t know why he’s never noticed how often she does it, not a nervous tic exactly because he doesn’t think he makes her nervous. Annoyed, half the time, amused the other half, but never nervous.

(Except for that one time he picked the leaves out of her hair and left his hand resting there a bit too long. She thought he’d found a bug, too, apparently.)

(He likes to think _he_ was the one that made her nervous, not the bug.)

(He doesn’t like to think ‘why’ though.)

(Most times. Sometimes when she’s looking at him like this though, the ‘why’ seems important.)

“But what?” he asks.

“But everyone deserves to have a nice birthday. Even you,” she says.

The “even you” doesn’t sound like a judgement. It’s so rare that he ever feels true judgement coming from Emma, and it always gets him the same, that relief flooding his system, that hopefulness leading into happiness.

Because even he deserves a nice birthday, even if _he_ doesn’t consider that to be true.

She must think he’s an idiot for not wanting to celebrate this day - when he has her to celebrate it with.

“I have a sister,” Killian says abruptly. “Her name’s Willa. She’s in the British Navy.”

“So, that’s why you’re stuck with Ruby, then,” she says, doesn’t mention that Willa isn’t here to celebrate it with him, just knocks shoulders with him and then thinks better of pulling away, leaning her head on him tiredly, “Britain doesn’t deserve you.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to fumble over words of “I don’t deserve you,” but he holds back because it’ll only make Emma flush and give him that look like he’s offended her, like she isn’t the best friend he’s ever had.

(He likes the pink on her, though.)

-

Henry’s her favorite kid ever but seriously, he has to stop chatting with Killian when he’s supposed to be cleaning around the register. Killian’s the biggest neat freak there is and Henry’s a distraction that he doesn’t need because later he’ll just whine and whine about how he didn’t do a good enough job, and Emma does not want to hear that.

She’d rather clean the ice cream from between the glass and the register herself.

So she moves towards them, broom in hand, ready to swat Henry away when she hears him say, “I don’t have enough.”

She pauses as Killian leans forward, glances at Emma for a second before he says, “I’ll cover you.”

“Why?” Henry asks suspiciously.

“Because Emma once did it for me, and it was the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

“Really?” Henry asks.

He must not know she’s standing there because he doesn’t turn around to ask for confirmation, just lets Killian speak while Emma freezes, unable to move or speak or -

“That’s how we met, after all,” Killian says. He leans back, reaches up to scratch at his neck. Emma stares but he doesn’t look her way as he says, “She’s the best friend I could ever have asked for and…”

He trails off and then says, “I helped her make the mint chocolate chip. Want to try it?”

“Sure! Thanks, Killian. I’ll pay you back.”

Emma finds her muscles working again as Henry starts to move and she makes an about-face turn and goes back to canned foods to sweep up the dry rice spilled on the floor.

It’s as she’s cursing herself for forgetting the dustpan that Killian appears with it in hand.

“Saw that you were sweeping and I knew you’d forget. You always do.”

“I’m not forgetful,” she argues. She blurts, “I remember how we met.”

She shrugs, trying to make it sound less like some kind of confession. “I mean it was only like a year and a half ago. Right?”

Emma leans back against the shelf, pressing the broom there too. She doesn’t feel much like sweeping, except to sweep away the awkward silence between them.

Killian walks over to her, carefully sidestepping the pile of rice, so he can stand right in front of her.

“It feels like forever,” Killian says.

“You’ve been stuck with me for too long,” she says, but the joke misses the mark. She can feel pink rising up into her cheeks, unbidden, confused as to why there’s heat in her face anyway. She just needs to fill the silence.

“I’m the best friend you could ever have asked for?”

But not with that. She meant to - she doesn’t know what she meant to say or even how she meant to say it, but how it comes out is a question, seeking, searching. She needs to know what it means, the way she wants to push his hair out of his face and stare into his eyes, so blue, she’s noticed so many times before how blue they are, but they seem bluer now when he’s staring back at her with such wide eyes -

“Of course,” Killian says.

Footsteps skitter on the floor and a voice asks, “Have I interrupted something?”

Emma would back away, but the shelf is already at her back so it just rattles behind her, Killian’s hands coming up to her shoulders to steady her.

She turns her head to look at Mrs. Bastet, smiling at the two of them. She looks kind of like a cat in this light, like she’s ready to lick her own paw in self-satisfaction.

“I just need some help with these bags, but I can wait,” she says.

“Wait for what?” Emma asks.

“Nobody’s stopping you,” Mrs. Bastet says.

Emma’s about to ask the question again when she turns away, one of her fifty cats rubbing up against her ankles as she walks back towards the register.

They’ll be sweeping cat hair from the floors again, and gods she hopes it doesn’t float anywhere near the ice cream. They’d be out of business if someone died from a cat allergy or, worse, imprisoned, and Emma can survive on her own, but she doesn’t want to, not without Ingrid, not without Killian, who’s still holding her shoulders, who’s breathing down her neck practically, who’s looking at her like “ _nobody's stopping you”_ , but this is as affectionate at it gets and she’s the best friend he could’ve asked for - and she can still be his best friend if she just -

She pushes closer and leans up on her toes, very carefully pressing her lips to his, but it isn’t a soft peck like the ones Ruby places on her cheeks when she’s begging Emma to take the day off, or the one Ingrid always leaves on her forehead, every night like Emma’s still the twelve year old girl who craved affection and someone to hold her hand through the night -

Emma _kisses_ him.

It’s unsure, she’s never kissed anyone before but she’s certain that she wants this, and it’s only a beat before she’s certain that he wants this, too, when he kisses her back, mouth moving unsure against hers until they find their footing - Ruby says they’re _always_ in sync but if they were so in sync, this probably would’ve happened long ago, on his birthday, on hers, on that time at the beach that they built and toppled that sand castle together, or the time they skyped with Willa and Emma watched as Killian blushed his way through every teasing remark from his older sister.

If they were in sync -

Ruby’s right, they are, because when the need for air finally becomes too much to ignore, they both make a noise of wanting, of disappointment.

“Go help Mrs. Bastet?” Emma suggests because if he doesn’t go, she’s going to kiss him again and the cat hair’s going to end up in the ice cream and she’ll never get a repeat of this if they get sent to jail.

And she thinks she wants a repeat.

No, she’s _sure_ she does.

And he is too, even if he tries to hide it by nodding furiously. He’s a shit liar, and the smile on his face isn’t going to be fought off for long. Emma knows because they’re in sync and hers is probably wide enough to split her face.


	3. you got that super bass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating upped from G to M

They’ve snuck ice cream between breaks before, going into the basement freezer to take a dip of the flavors not ready to serve to the Storybrooke public, but it’s a little different now that the cold is getting to them the way it usually does, and Emma can’t just huddle against him for warmth.

No, now he tucks his chin on her neck, arms curled around her, hugging her from behind while simultaneously devouring his cone.

“Isn’t this uncomfortable?” she asks.

“Not at all.”

She groans. “You’re heavy.”

When he replies, it’s whispered against her neck, words tickling behind her ear and making her shiver, “Do you mind?”

“Yes,” she says.

She minds it a lot because it brings that funny feeling to her stomach. She can’t call it butterflies because there’s no fluttering, just a deep warmth that shouldn’t be when it’s so cold, and a desire to bring them even closer, to maybe disentangle them so she can flip around in his arms, leave the ice cream forgotten and just kiss away the feeling in her stomach.

There’s a little bit of fluttering at that, but it isn’t nervous. She might’ve lost the nerves when Killian kissed her for the second time - or the third time. At least it had to happen before the fourth kiss, the one she pressed on his cheek when Ingrid’s back was turned.

He was the one most nervous at that, definitely, kept shooting glances at Ingrid like she might turn full Ice Queen and freeze him to death with her glare.

Emma does turn into him at the memory.

“Why are you -?”

She smothers his question with a kiss.  She tastes chocolate and it’s the best one they’ve made yet, tastes sweet and rich and Emma flutters with pride while her heart flutters to life, pit-patting against her chest at how much better ice cream tastes when she’s kissing it from his lips.

It takes actual focused thought for her to keep her cone held high, and it takes all of a second for him to throw himself into the kiss and make her uncaring of the way the melting ice cream starts to drip over her fingers.

It’s the longest they’ve ever kissed - and it’s the warmest she’s ever felt, hot even, when he steps into her and there’s only the hint of space between them.

She’s not nervous but when their thighs touch, she steps backwards, laughing over the pounding in her ears, zoning in on the chocolate dripping from the end of his own cone as he stares at her, blinking slow, a direct contrast to the rapid fire beating of her heart.

“Uncomfortable now, right?” Emma asks, poking at his stomach, a mirror of the spot where all the warmth has flooded in her.

He draws in a breath and doesn’t say anything at all.

-

They’re official in the sense that Ruby spends an inordinate and inappropriate amount of time in Ingrid’s office printing up new name badges for them with little hearts on it, says it’s for Valentine’s Day when Ingrid asks and leaves Killian to stammer out his agreement because the only thing worse than the truth of Ruby teasing them about kissing in the freezer is Ingrid thinking that he was a willing participant in wearing “Emma’s Valentine” on his chest and a co-conspirator in having Emma wear “Killian’s Valentine” on hers.

Killian spends all his time thinking about kissing Emma, and all his other time forcing himself not to think about kissing her, and it’s more than official. He’s certifiable - receives one from Belle, awarding him the title of “Lovebird #1”, on which he immediately suspected were Ruby’s orders until Belle stared at him in confusion and said, “Oh, no. Ruby doesn’t even _know_ how you stare off into the distance during library hours.”

It’s more than official because Emma doesn’t even seem to care when Ruby never bothers to print out new name badges even though summer rolls around and February’s cold can’t even be recollected in the July heat.

Not that February was _that_ cold.

Killian can only ever remember being _too_ warm as Emma curled into his space and her lips pressed to his cheek, to his mouth and he can just barely remember that warmth over the things he tried to ignore.

Namely, things he doesn’t _want_ to name lest that end up on his badge and he end up fired, banned, and mortified by the look on Emma’s face when she realizes what he’s had way too much time to become comfortable with - and yet, can only ever find discomfort when she -

When she pulls him down to the basement the week before break ends and says, “We have five minutes,” with the kind of urgency that always means he’s going to need more than five minutes when it’s over.

He focuses in on scooping the cake batter ice cream out for the both of them, little cups since they’ve both learned that they have no interest in cleaning up the ice cream spills from the basement floor even though cones taste much better.

But the moment they have more than a taste in the cups, she grabs hers away and spins him into her, so he’s forced to catch her around the waist in order to keep them both steady as she laughs into him.

“This one tastes really good,” she says around the ice cream in her mouth, a huge chunk that she’d licked out of her cup instead of using her spoon.

“It does,” Killian agrees even though he hasn’t taken a bite.

She notices. She always does.

It isn’t like he thought he could hide it forever, the way everything aches when she’s around, but Emma has been surprisingly good at _not_ realizing that it takes him a moment to consider the smile on her face as anything more than general amusement, takes him a moment to see the softness at its edges and the round surprise of her eyes as she steps closer and he grips her waist tighter, trying to hold himself back from rocking into her.

“Emma,” he starts.

Perhaps, it’s meant to be an apology, the way he stutters over her name. Meant to placate her. To chase away any worries about his intentions. Perhaps, but he can’t tell either way because he says her name, and instead of pulling back when their thighs touch, she presses into him like she’s trying to see how close they can get.

“This isn’t uncomfortable,” Emma says as he holds her tight. She echoes the words as he tests the position, inching into the spread of her thighs, whispers them softly, “Not uncomfortable.”

“Yeah,” Killian agrees.

-

Freezer visits always seem to go something like this:

Emma starts to kiss his chin and Killian flexes his hand on her hip, groaning and staring towards the ceiling as if he’ll find some help from above, a reprieve from the way Emma lips keep drawing lower and lower.

They have work to do, their five minutes up so long ago, and gods above ( _help_ ) because he could stay here forever.

Emma looks down and grins, drawing forward to whisper in his ear, “You should put that ice cream to better use. Cold helps,” and somehow (aka Killian swipes the remains of ice cream on her neck) _somehow_ , he ends up licking chocolate vanilla swirl off her throat and, his voice hoarse, he asks, “Is that helping?”

-

And sometimes they go a little something like this:

Emma grinds against him again, he pushes back against her, and as he lifts her up on the storeroom boxes, it grows so hot between them that Emma’s body feels like she might implode into _just_ heat, but she can’t stop, can’t resist the pull of his lips, the weight of his hands, the weight of him pressed where she’s so hungry for him.

Because she can recognize that now, knows the warmth in her belly for what it is, want, desire, hunger, things she probably should be putting less thought to than overseeing the store, but what can you do when Killian’s kissing the air from her lungs and panting every time he pulls back like it’s as hard for him to breathe as it is for her, surrounded by all this cold but trapped in all this heat.

What can she do really except moan into him and -

-

And once, once in a blue corn moon they go something like this:

Killian tugs her shirt up from her skirt and runs his hands over her belly - so torn between inching them higher and inching them lower - between keeping it as safe as he can with his hands on her bare skin and risking death by touching her where he’s wanted to for too long.

There are warning bells going off in his head as he takes the risky path and drags one hand up to cup her bra and the other down to press at the hem of her skirt.

But they stop just as soon as they start, as soon as Emma starts to whine and says, “Oh god, finally,” and he forgets risky, slides his hand right up underneath her bra to cup her bare breast.

She’s _warm_ , soft, and a bunch of other adjectives he’d imagined she would be, and yet imagination could never prepare him for the reality of touching her and glancing at her face as he does so to see the reflection of his own hazed thoughts in her eyes.

-

But, unfortunately, they end like this:

They’ve already locked the doors for the night and there’s nothing left to do but the final cleanup, the register already being dealt with by Ingrid. There really isn’t much to clean and then all there’s left to do is find their hurried way down to the freezer, find Emma’s hands on his chest and his lifting her skirt, gently tugging her underwear to the side so he can touch her.

They’ve gotten good at this - too good even because Emma’s as quiet as can be when he’s rubbing circles against the swollen skin, trying to ease her ache the way she can’t ease his, not with their limited time. She’s so quiet that it’s easy to hear his panted breaths as Emma kisses his throat, tries to work at his belt despite the fact that they really shouldn’t, that they really can’t - despite the fact that they’ve never gone further than one of them semi-naked at a time.

She’s so quiet that they almost manage to hear it before the door swings open and Ingrid says in a quiet to challenge their own, oh-so calmly, “There’s a cat food spill and I’m going to need you to get it, Killian, while Emma and I finish the register for tomorrow.”

Killian nods his head, can’t even look at her, is so grateful that the door closes shut behind her as she goes and she doesn’t watch as he pulls his hand away from Emma.

-

Unfortunately, they don’t just end, but finishing the register is an hour of Ingrid putting Emma through the most excruciatingly painful sex talk ever. Not that Emma can really blame her when she talks of the risks of food sex or when she reminds Emma about hygiene and how she’s almost 18 and the justice system won’t be kind on her any longer. Having no knowledge of the law doesn’t exempt her from it, and “You don’t indulge in sexual acts near saleable foods, Emma.”

Still, it isn’t for the worst because even though those moments end for good except for a quick peck on the cheek when Ingrid is nowhere to be found and only in the areas without cameras, when Ingrid goes to visit her sister, Emma can finally pull Killian into her room again without him edging his way out the door the second he steps inside.

They kiss like they haven’t kissed in forever, which is true because it’s been at least a month of her wanting to and Killian drawing back at the slightest sound like it’ll be Ingrid at the door even though it’s just them, sitting at the docks and watching the water.

She’s already half atop him and grinding down when she says, “Ingrid and I had ‘ _The Talk._ ’ And I think we should totally put that conversation to good use, shouldn’t we?”

Killian chuckles, almost a nervous edge to the sound as his eyes flit across her face and he says, “Belle’s books didn’t warn me about this.”

“Belle gave you _books_?” Emma exclaims.

“It was last year, after she realized what we were doing during our study breaks,” Killian admits.

“That’s unsurprising, actually. She’s very considerate that way.”

Emma nods in confirmation of her words.

“Considerate?” Killian laughs. “That’s not the word I would use to describe her dropping those books on the table in front of me and saying she was going to test me.”

“Test you?” She asks.

“There was a written portion,” Killian insists.

Emma throws a punch at him and says, “Stop exaggerating. I’m sure it was only multiple choice.”

Killian laughs harder and his hands fall from his waist, his pants barely down and Emma stares, says quietly, “Ingrid made this seem like such a somber affair. Why are you laughing? You’re not supposed to laugh at a funeral.”

“A funeral?”

His confusion is palpable, but no more than Emma’s humor as she laughs and clutches at her stomach because he’s too far for her clutch at him.

Killian lifts up off the bed and stares at her - and then he moves towards her, his motions predatory, and Emma remembers Ingrid’s words, the way she described “le petit mort” and oh god, he _killed her with his dick_ and that’s such a terrible visual that Emma might choke on it (and oh gods, at _that_ fucking visual).

She can’t stop laughing, will never stop laughing if she keeps looking at him and he keeps turning that color, so unsure of the source until she says, “You’ll kill my vagina, apparently,” in all seriousness that she can muster when she can barely speak around her giggles.

“A good death, I hope,” Killian murmurs.

It should be funny, she should laugh harder, but his words make her chuckles slow and then come to a halt altogether as she reaches for the edge of her sleep shirt and tugs it up and off, leaving herself bare except for her underwear. He stares and perhaps she should be nervous about the way he goes for his pants again, but all she can see is the way he ducks his head and sucks in an audible breath and it’s the exact same way he did it when they first met, when he went for his shoe with his shoulders raised like - like she never knew what it was like to have to hide her money in her shoes because it would get taken from her otherwise, like she wouldn’t _understand._

She understands - sucks in her own breath when he finally gets his pants down and his shoes off and carefully folded on the trunk at the foot of her bed.

“You sure about this?” Killian asks, scratching at the back of his neck.

“Am I sure about dying?” Emma replies.

He laughs this time and turns his head just so that when she moves into kiss him, she misses, which draws back her own laughter until they’re both trying and failing at it. Killian’s lips miss the mark for the thousandth-millionth-billionth time and his laughter gusts in her face, his apology wrapping around her - and oh, look, his arms are wrapping around her too, drawing her closer.

By silent agreement, their foreheads come together and they lean there against one another, both laughing. Emma starts a steady count to calm her breathing back to something manageable, but it’s hard when he’s still letting out occasional chuckles. She manages eventually, peeling her eyes open and he’s staring at her, and for a second, the laughter chokes in her throat because he’s staring at her and she sees it, the (what the fuck can she call it but) adoration in his eyes and she can’t possibly deal with that, with him reflecting everything she feels for him, how can he possibly look at her the same, how can he - and she sees the moment he sees it, too, the moment his eyes go wide and then impossibly soft, his mouth struggling to grin but unable to do anything but part into curled wonder.

“My funeral is too lively,” she whispers, unable to take it any longer.

Killian laughs, tickling at her sides and Emma moans, caught in laughter again. “You’re not supposed to disturb the dead, buddy.”

“I haven’t killed you yet,” Killian reminds her.

“No, you haven’t, but -”

-

Attempted murder is all they really make it to that night because actual murder is too difficult when they’re both too busy laughing themselves to death.

It helps that Emma’s bed is soft and he’s tired from helping Granny out in the kitchen, a job he’s only rarely had to do. It also helps that Emma exhausts herself quizzing him with more thoroughness than Belle had, even, which he didn’t think was possible until Emma made it so.

He falls asleep wrapped around her only to wake up tangled in sheets and limbs and so uncomfortable that Killian can sense Emma’s about to tell him off for cricks in her neck and aches in her knees, so he turns into her at the same time. Her eyes are still sleep soft, but her smile is growing wider, and when she kisses him and keeps kissing him, lips meeting hers easily, no laughter to cut the kiss short, no jokes to keep them apart, just a warmth pressing down on him, driving him forward until -

“Murder is pretty great,” Emma moans into his throat, her fingers still digging into his arms even though he’s no longer pressed into her, just resting atop her.

Killian hums his agreement, hums a smile into her skin as he kisses her neck and says, “I quite enjoyed your funeral.”

“You’re heavy,” she murmurs after a beat.

“And you mind,” he surmises.

He starts to move off her but she pulls him back down, and whispers, “No, not at all.”

They’re quiet for a long time, long enough for him to shift them both onto their sides so he’s not actually killing her with his weight – amongst other things – long enough for him to consider chuckling at that train of thought until Emma finally breaks the silence and says, “You know, you can’t be tried for same murder twice.”

He could honestly kill her for the giggles that she presses into him, for the way the heat stirs between them and he’s warm, a blush on his skin and a heat in his veins, could honestly kill her –

Kisses her head instead, and treks a path downwards with his lips until he can touch hers and say, “I’ll keep that in mind.”


End file.
